


Ennui

by orphan_account



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Character Jadedness, Cheating, Infidelity, Light Bondage, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Relationship Dissatisfaction, Sex, Slice of Life, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max is tired. Victoria is bored.<br/>Snapshots of Max and Chloe, Victoria and Nathan, going through this time in their lives, arranged in no particular order. </p><p>Or, the cheating exes AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overtime(s)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Welcome to this disastrous AU I'd like to call 'the cheating douchebag exes AU' no one probably wants (except me. Of course except me.)  
> Inspiration taken from a [prompt response](http://pataytas.tumblr.com/post/140842673230/writing-challenge-1-get-your-phone-and-open-your) I posted just recently. I didn't even know I wanted this AU until I started writing it. 
> 
> Not sure if anyone else in the fandom has done something similar to it, I haven't really explored it much yet. But! Anyway.
> 
> I'm sorry to the Pricefield ship. I'm sorry to the Chasescott(?) ship. Hell I'm even sorry to my own ship, Chasefield.  
> *Leaves this here and hides*
> 
> *To be proofread.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is doing overtime. Chloe and her needs. Victoria has nothing to do. Nathan has somewhere to be.

The eggs are cooking. Two side by side on a pan, sizzling, crackling, whites opaque but yolks still soft, wiggling. Max doesn't like her egg yolks runny. Runny yolks are disgusting, messy, and weird, in all honesty. Eggs are supposed to be solids. Liquids are for soups and drinks. She cranks up the burner and swerves to get the coffeemaker started up. A glance at the wall clock tells her it's 7:24, more than half an hour early for time-in. She isn't rushing.

Footfalls sound from the hall, grow louder with a yawn and a wet click of tongue on teeth. Max doesn't turn around. "Eggs are cooking," She says, doing a head tip by way of greeting. The yolks look firmer now. She starts scooping the eggs into a plate. "You're up late. Doing a graveyard shift later?"

"Mmhm. I don't want eggs," Chloe's mouth does another wet click. She pads over toward Max, circles her waist with her arms, and moves in for a kiss. Max stops her right there with a palm and furrowed brows. Chloe frowns. "What?"

"You smell. I just showered. I'm all prepped for work and I don't want a bathroom rerun."

"Fine," An ass slap. Chloe wanders away and Max bends to level with the buzzing coffeemaker, plate of eggs high on one hand. The coffee is going from a foamy brown to a deeper, more concentrated tint. Max's foot taps impatiently. "Are you gonna come home for lunch?" Chloe asks.

The coffeemaker continues to buzz. _Come on._ "I don't think so," Max says distractedly. She turns over her shoulder and sees Chloe stuffing her face with the bacon already set on the table. Something in Max's chest heats, and she frowns. "Save some for me, will you?"

Chloe ignores the chide in Max's voice and the annoyance on her face. She speaks through a mouthful of greasy food, and at one point, the sight was adorable. At one point, Max was fond of how Chloe spoke with her mouth full. She looked cute. Now it's just gross. "Why ain'cha coming home for lunch for? I can't cook anything, babe."

"Just throw something in the microwave." Max says. The coffeemaker finishes and she snatches the pot off. She ambles over to the table to set her handfuls down. Coffee pot, plate of eggs deposited, she double takes to the kitchen to swipe a mug for coffee. _A mug_. Just one, meant for herself, which doesn't really matter. Chloe takes it anyway when she sets it down.

"Microwave food tastes like dog food."

"And you know the taste of dog food? Just some takeouts then. How 'bout pizza?"

Chloe thinks it through around the rim of a filled mug. Max's mug, Max reminds herself with a sting. Chloe sips, smacks her lips contemplatively, says, "Alright then," and watches Max work on her getting some food. Bacon, an egg. Dry, firm, not runny. "I guess I'll see you for dinner then? I'd really like some of that beef and mushroom thing you did last week. It'd make a great meal before my shift."

"I'm doing overtime," Max answers. Chloe looks appalled and halfway hurt, so she sighs. Through her nostrils, one breath in and then out. "I've got a lot of work to catch up on, Chloe. Especially since you pretty much _deleted_ everything I was working on."

"Hey! That's not fair, how was I supposed to know your laptop was gonna get fried?"

Max's eyes narrow. "It was a _bogus_ download site."

"I thought we were over this?" Chloe's voice gets shrill.

"We _are_ over this," Max says. She sighs, brings her elbows to the table and holds her forehead. The heat in her chest crawls up, tendrils hot and licking up her neck and to her head. She feels a migraine coming on. " _Just_ \- just handle your own food for a couple of nights, okay? While I catch up with work."

She tries to smile, she really does. Chloe does, too. One is better at smiling than the other, and Max isn't it. "I'm really sorry." Chloe says. Max's face twitches. Chloe's apologies are heartfelt. She means it when she says she's sorry. She's sorry she didn't pick Max up, sorry her phone's on silent mode, sorry she forgot to leave some for Max.

Chloe's always sorry. Always has something to be sorry about. It's so tiring.

"It's okay, babe," Max says but when she looks at her plate, one egg halved, two strips of bacon untouched, and she doesn't feel hungry anymore, she knows it isn't okay. She sighs, pushes the plate away and gets up. She picks her jacket off a chair. "I'm going."

Chloe blinks. She stands too, in that careless way that sends her chair toppling. Such a toddler, really. "Oh. Right, okay. Have fun at work. Be safe." She says. The smile she gives Max is kind, and Max doesn't want to be an ass. She doesn't want to be too big of a douche. So when Chloe leans in to kiss her this time, she lets it happen. Pauses like she's standing on unsteady floors, wood going creak and cracking. Careful, now.

When she's out the door, she rubs off the grease and spit on her cheek. She needs some coffee. The Coffee Bean sounds good.

Max is tired, and her legs can't take her away from their apartment fast enough.

* * *

 

The sun is up. Sunbeams through the gaps of the blinds, spotlights on Victoria's legs that stick out of the blankets. Spotlights that turn into a full-on singular glare when said blinds whir open. They peel back from the window and Victoria is hissing, a jackknife springing. She pulls on the blankets and retreats under their darkness.

But the darkness peels back, too. The blankets are pulled and she's growling, limbs bundles of tense muscles that flex when she flails. She sits up, cracks her eyes open. Nathan is standing at the foot of the bed in a suit and briefcase, and he smirks at her. Victoria grunts.

"What is it, Nate?" She rasps. Nathan shuffles before he walks around the bed, stops at the side. He smells fresh. Aftershave, perfume, the soap they have in the bathroom. Looks fresh, too, in the suit Victoria got him for their 2nd anniversary, immaculately ironed from jacket to slacks. He's a handsome businessman.

"I have to go. Business trip to Manhattan. I told you about that, right? Five days long? I'm going with your dad? Barclay's?" He adds the last part with a smooth lilt, voice low, vaguely condescending. Victoria blinks. Continues to blink, waits for the reason behind the rude awakening. Nathan catches on. "I just thought I could do with a going off smooch."

Victoria rolls her eyes, rubs her forehead to her scalp. Drowsiness is tying her nerves into thick knots, but, "Fine, get in here." she manages, and Nathan tilts down while she tilts up. Morning spit is sticky, sour, awful, but he doesn't mind. Obviously, because he pushes them both down and kisses even deeply. Victoria feels the tent in his slacks pressing on her thigh. She rolls her eyes.

"I'm gonna miss you, babe," He mutters against her cheek. He says it sweetly, tongue gentle on the words and on her neck. He pulls the hems of Victoria's night gown up and all Victoria is is sour. A belt unbuckles, a zipper comes down. Nathan bucks and keens: "Oh, _hell_."

Victoria closes her eyes. Tightens her jaw on the scoop of Nathan's shoulder, breathes through her nose. Nathan smells good. Great, he's going to get sex stench all over him.

He does her slow. Steady, sweet, gentle, like he often does. Waits for her to settle and move against him. It's making love. He's very capable of it, no matter what the calloused exterior and the arrogant smirk he always wear says about him. He's love in a rough shell.

Slow. The sweetness of hard chocolate.

It's boring.

He moves soft but comes hard. He keens again, grinding stiff and slumping at the same time. They pay for pills, Victoria doesn't mind it. A warmth skitters from her pelvis up to her belly. She groans.

"Dad's waiting," She says with a push, just a nudge with her palm. Nathan laughs into her ear, reels back to his knees. His necktie's twisted and the collar of his shirt is ridden unkempt to one side. "You know he doesn't like it when people are late." Victoria says. She pulls up, sits, legs spread around Nathan's knees and fixes his shirt and tie for him. Even his belt and pants.

Nathan hums and smiles, nods his head goofily and gets off. The bed bounces, entices Victoria with the softness of sheets and promises of more sleep. "Right, gotta get going then. Hey," He pulls forward again and kisses her on the mouth, then the forehead. _There's_ the smooch he wanted. "I'll call you when we get there, yeah? Stick around for the call?"

"Sure." Victoria says. Nathan kisses her again (so sweet, _too_ sweet) and heads off with a limp wave.

"Love you, baby."

"Spray on some perfume." She calls out. Nathan's laughter follows him out.

The sun is blinding. Bright enough that her bed becomes uncomfortable and the sleepiness wears off. Victoria sighs, mutters to nothing and slides off the mattress to stand up. The Seattle cityscape spreads on the window before her. A breathtaking view from here, on a condo unit high up near the top floor. Seattle at noon. Cars and people like ants down below, skittering. Clouds on the sky parting, crawling in excruciating paces. A camera-worthy moment.

She's taken too many shots of it. It's boring now.

She picks her tablet off the bedside table, scrolls through itineraries, goes through notes and messages left by an assistant, unread emails. Nathan and her, they're managing the Seattle branch of the Chase Space and requests for reviews from budding artists are flooding their business inbox.

Victoria shoots her assistant a quick email, types out a command to go through the mails at his earliest leisure. She tosses the tablet to the bed.

The Seattle cityscape hasn't changed on the window. The bedroom is coated with the smell of Nathan's perfume, their air fresheners, and sex. She closes the blinds, sets off for the bathroom.

Victoria is bored, and she needs to get out of here pronto.

* * *

 

Santana is the Seattle equivalent of Arcadia Bay Brooke. She's spiteful, obsessive, weird, and a master in the arts of passive-aggressive exchange. She's fake, thick make-up and personality both. Max is sick of her crap.

"You should go with that one," Santana stiffly says. She points at the screen of Max's laptop and her nail is long, sharp, horrific. "It's a good shot. It'll go well with the article. And artsy enough for the blog and shit."

It's a bad shot. It won't go well with the article. Max may get fired if she goes with it. She hums regardless, pretends she's thinking it through. "I don't know. This other one looks better. The buildings are silhouetted, really brings out the sunset."

"Ugh. Whatever, but I'm telling you, it's this one," Santana's horrific nail _tap-taps_ on the screen. "You can go with whatever, I'm just giving you an opinion here."

Well, Max is the one with the Photography degree here, but sure.

Max hums again. Pointedly doesn't look at Santana as she starts disconnecting her camera and rolls up the cable. Santana's eyes are round, wide behind her ridiculous pink secretary glasses. The mole at the corner of her lip bounces when she smirks.

"You doing overtime tonight?" She asks. Max is rolling up her cable with exaggerated slowness. She doesn't look up.

"No. Actually I might head out early."

"Yeah? What for? I dunno, I just thought you were gonna overtime. Since you got all these articles to write up, after that whole laptop virus fiasco," Santana waves a hand around. Max wants to break it. "You got that under control?"

"Yeah." Max's voice is too high.

"What'cha got goin' on?"

"Chloe's pulling a late shift. She wants me to fix her up a kickass dinner for motivation," Max says. She finally finishes up with her cable and dunks it into her bag. "Gotta pick up some groceries for it."

Santana's face crumples. "That's so... noontime drama."

"Yeah, well." Is all Max says. She shuts her laptop, picks up her camera, and hooks her bag onto her shoulder. Someone wanders over to their cubicle. A guy named George, unshaven, curly hair, all the charms of an exotic European without the accent. Santana straightens immediately and squeezes her arms against her breasts, trying to pop the cleavage. George is looking at Max.

"Early time out, Maximo?" He says. Silky, deep, admittedly sexy. Max shrugs.

"Got something up. See you guys."

Santana turns, robotic, rusted around the neck. A stink's in her eyes. George just smiles.

Typical smooth guy trying to hit on the tiny, cute coworker. And the jealous bitch friend.

So noontime drama.

 

Max hobbles into the passenger side, plops heavily on the seat. Back aching, breaths puffed out in literal grunts. Victoria appraises her from the driver's side with an arched brow.

"Long day?" She asks. Max cants her head in a lame nod. She dislodges her bag, tosses it over to the backseat. The strap flings and smacks on the rear window.

" _Long-ass_ ," She answers. She sighs, sinks in her seat and throws her arms up. She grabs the headrest. "I still got articles and photos to magically pull out of my ass. EIC's breathing down my neck."

"Nothing was recovered?"

" _Nada_."

"Badass virus," Victoria drawls. She plucks her sunglasses off the top of her head and slides it onto the dashboard. Max thinks she must've been out all day. "Chloe must be crippled with guilt."

"Crippled with the troubles of not having anyone to cook for her tonight," Comes the answer. Dipped with too much spite and piss that Victoria laughs out. Max winces inwardly and tries an amendment: "Chloe is Chloe. She'll say sorry, drop it, then move on," A sigh. One too heavy. "She probably can't do anything about this, anyway. She works at Seven-Eleven, not Intel. Computer viruses are out of the forte."

Victoria is watching her with a passive expression. "Too bad for you. How about we get you a smoothie? A sundae? There's this cool place, just next to the Seven-Eleven downtown -"

"Hey, fuck you," Max snaps. Victoria laughs, puts a fist over her mouth. "I'd rather we head over to the Chase Space actually. The art might relax me."

"Nathan isn't there. He's out of town." Victoria says, self-satisfied smirk plastered. Smirks wider when Max makes a defeated sound and chuckles.

She starts up the car. The glows of the dashboard foam the interior, gentle red glows that pool into reachable shadows. Max watches Victoria's hands glide over the controls. Pretty hands, always manicured, always bejeweled. Still like high school. "So uh, why sundaes and smoothies, huh?" She asks.

"Don't you remember? I used to always get you some back at Blackwell. Whenever you were in a particularly bad mood. You loved those kinds of Two Whales garbage."

"Oh."

"Wasn't I such a good girlfriend?"

"If you were, we wouldn't have broken up." Max says with a smirk. Victoria's lips pucker, a dainty hand splaying on her chest, feigns hurt with a slack jaw. Max's face heats.

"Well aren't _you_ sassy tonight," Victoria says smoothly when the act drops. She grins, inclines to wrap an arm around Max's seat. "Come here, grumpy."

Max obliges. They kiss and it's wet, deep and starving but not sloppy. Chloe uses a lot less teeth, but Victoria nibbles and grinds and it's _amazing_. Electricity crackles at the edges of Max's vision before she closes her eyes.

Max is tired, and Victoria is rejuvenating.

* * *

 

Victoria is bored, and Max is fun.

She's fast, rough, electric like high voltage bolts. She's strong in that way that her body doesn't show, all arms and hands pulling Victoria or pushing her away. Throwing her around like a rag doll about to tear. Very _not_ like when they were 18, hell no.

The years must have stretched her out. Sharpened her edges a little bit.

It's an enjoyable development.

Victoria's arms give. She falls on her face, chin chaffing the pillow, teeth closing on the pillowcase to muffle a grunt. Spit inks her cheeks and chin, sweat rides her back and thighs in thick rivulets. Max's teeth close around her clit, tongue batting, fingers curling inside her and she whines. It breaks at the end into a cry.

Max pushes with her face and Victoria slides forward, saliva smearing on the pillowcase. Her breasts drag on the sheets and her thighs pinch. Close firmly around Max's cheeks, squeezes.

The tension Victoria's keeping on her knees and toes coil. Hot ache rides her bones and muscles. It eases when the tension snaps and she's coming, crying out into the pillow, flutters shaking her hips down to her toes. Max stops and lets her have that peace. Her tongue bats out once, catches the streaming moist dripping off her clit.

She tugs at Victoria but Victoria only grunts breathlessly, so she drags her teeth on one of Victoria's ass cheeks instead, laughs, "You're so lazy." and tightens her hold on her hips. One moment Victoria is breathing and the next she isn't, because Max hoists her up and pulls down. She wobbles before she steadies herself with her palms on the bones of Max's hip. Victoria digs her nails in and sits.

"Jesus _fucking_ -" She cuts herself off, grunts and whimpers, grinds lower for more friction. Max's tongue disconnects and Victoria swears she's grinning. She feels Max's cheeks lift against her skin.

"Haven't gotten a good lay in a while?" Max asks smugly. Victoria barks a guffaw.

"Shut the fuck up, Maxine." She says. She lowers herself and settles between Max's thighs, tongue out and fingers crawling. She licks, bites, dips her tongue in once and Max breathes hot and startled all over her thigh. She grins.

The reaction is immediate. Max's lips part, flushed with ache and need, weeping tasteful moistness.

"You're one to talk."

Max's phone rings (some obscure hipster song ringtone) and Victoria digs in, drowns out the music with her mouth and fingers until the only sounds that exist are their their breathing, their grunting, moaning. Max's thighs are tight around her head and neck, strong enough to leave her ears red and ringing. She tastes sweet, good on the tongue and bitter on the way down. Sticky on her lips.

Victoria pounds with rhythm, bites because she knows Max is into that. She teases Max's clit with her teeth, parts the lips with her thumbs and breathes heavily out her nose.

The trembles come like electric crackles. Max's hips jut out and stiffen, her breath long and warm and raspy on Victoria's thigh. A quiet release. Victoria wishes she was looking. Max is always quiet, but the face she does when she comes is visual perfection.

Victoria loses the thought pretty soon. All thought, at that. Max retaliates and sends her tumbling off the edge with pounding and curling fingers. They slump, heavy bodies pressed, sweating, and heaving with hard breaths. Victoria can feel Max's heartbeat on her stomach. Racing, fierce, the fury of a marching band's drumbeats. She could sleep to the sensation, almost.

But her phone rings again. Max nudges Victoria with a knee. "I gotta get that." She says breathlessly. Victoria whines and rolls off, lies flat on her back and watches Max crawl off the bed. She paces a couple of times in search for her jeans and, when she finds it, bends at the waist to pick them up. Victoria enjoys the brief view.

"Chloe? Yeah, yeah, I'm still here. What's up?..."

Victoria picks up a pillow. She throws, grins when it hits. Max scowls a warning and Victoria sticks her tongue out between her teeth. "...No, no, totally, yeah," Max picks up the pillow. "Right... Right, gimme a couple."

"You're a dick." She says when she's done. When she throws the pillow and it doesn't hit, Victoria laughs.

"I bet I'm a thick, long one," Victoria says, rolling to her stomach. "What was that about?"

"Chloe called in sick. She's waiting. I gotta get home or she's gonna get cranky."

"Cranky?"

"She's impatient."

True enough, Max's message tone rings twice in succession while she's buttoning her jeans. Victoria raises her brows and Max's head tips, a smirk coming on her face. She pulls a pretty good-looking smug face. Victoria's lips quirk upward at the corners.

Victoria dresses too. Some sweats and a tank, just while she prepares dinner. Max combs her hair, washes her hands, sprays on some of Victoria's perfume on herself and the bedroom. She knows where to find the hairbrush, the bathroom, and Victoria's perfume at this point. Habits and routines.

"I'm going."

"Sure," Victoria calls from the kitchen. She starts the microwave and it hums, muffles the soft thud of Max's gentle closing of the door. It opens again a few minutes later though, and she tries peering around the kitchen doorway to get a look at the front door. "Forgot something?"

Nathan's face comes into view. He looks surprised, if only a little concerned, and when he sees Victoria, his eyebrows lower. He looks like he might frown. Victoria's body stiffens for a moment before she recovers with a quiet breath and a face willed to impassiveness.

Unsteady floors, tiles cracking and splitting. Watch your step.

"Is... Did Caulfield just come from here? I passed her down at the lobby."

"Oh," Victoria keeps her voice even. She retreats to the kitchen and clicking footsteps tell her Nathan follows. "Yeah. I needed some help with the emails we've been getting. Photos from some aspiring photographers, you know."

"And?"

"She had some... interesting input. She does write and shoot for an art blog."

"I didn't even know you guys were still talking." Nathan hedges. Victoria swallows. She breathes a little, pulse upping themselves a pace on her wrists. Watch your step.

"Just on occasion. Seattle's art network is a web. Cables meeting, all that."

Nathan doesn't answer. When Victoria looks at him, his face is dour, thoughtful, a little grim. He has stress wrinkles from work, short years of learning the games of the business world and eventually playing them. Right now, the wrinkles deepen. Victoria tilts her head.

"I thought you were going to be at Manhattan for five days?" She says. Sweetly, lovingly, just the way Nathan likes it. She wraps her arms around his neck and his mouth twitches. Pulls them flush, for good measure. Nathan's heartbeat is strong, fast against her chest. Almost as fast as the one pressed on her stomach a while ago. "Missed me already, huh?"

Nathan chuckles. "Yeah, sure, Vic," Kisses. "Some changes in schedules. We got moved to next week. Your dad was _freaking_ livid. We were already at Barclays when they told us."

Victoria hums, twists to attend to the microwave when it dings. She keeps an arm around Nathan's neck. Safety, assurance.  _Watch your step._ Nathan relaxes but when he holds her hip, it's a little too tight. _Watch it._ "So how was your day? Had fun with Caulfield, at least?"

Victoria turns. She smiles and Nathan smiles back, the search lights in his eyes going out when she kisses his cheek. She grins: "Oh, yeah. I had fun."


	2. Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria wonders (Max's body is celestial. Flawless, flawless.) Who is Chloe? (She's empty, cold. She's falling apart.) Max goes cloud watching (rocket ships and flowers and hearts.) Nathan is worried (afraid, afraid.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on this AU from a Tumblr prompt, all in no particular order. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> [The Neighbourhood - Flawless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CA-K-oJGqU)  
> [The Neighbourhood - Say My Name / Cry Me A River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVbvLFRvIA4)  
> [Halsey - Is There Somewhere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=686SmDtBOu8)  
> [Halsey - I Walk The Line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qjl4lysi_s)

Max glows, pale, a moon in the middle of the room. A moon other than our moon. A moon that sweats, keens, and feels, moans unbidden in the draping silence. The sheets rustle, the bed bounces. Victoria has to come up for air.

She touches Max and her skin is flaming, lit with a fever spreading from the wet dip between her legs. Tendrils of licking fire, sin and hell and guiltless indulgence.

Victoria knows Max’s skin. Knows the whole map of it, an expanse of creamy flesh, baby soft, tender. A paradox to how fiercely she can bite and claw and lick. Victoria traces the invisible roads of Max’s legs to the freckles on her hips. Three darker dots splashed on the jutting bone. Victoria knows for a fact there are others. Knows for a fact Max has more on one of her thighs, her belly, on her breasts, her shoulders, one buttock.

She’s ticklish around her waist and collarbones. Victoria’s favorite parts of the map.

Max stretches, spreads under her, languid. Wide eyes, wordlessly begging. Her body is celestial.

Flawless, _flawless_.

She knows enough of Max’s skin to know it’s scarless, dotted with freckles and nothing more. She wonders what the skin would look like with wounds. Nails dig into Max’s hips, drag down, leave fiery lines, red and stark on the moon pale glow. Max cries out in pain, dwindling to a helpless whine when Victoria goes back down.

Fingers, tongue, teeth, lips. Max’s knees buckle, thighs folding. Fires breaking. Victoria feels warmth spilling into her mouth. It coats her fingers, her chin. Pricks her tongue with sweetness and bitterness swirled into one flavor.

A moon with a molten core.

Victoria crawls her way back up, crosses the moon’s roads, paths already traveled a hundred times. She finds Max’s mouth and parts the lips with her fingers, pushing them in. Max sucks them clean. She has nice lips. Pink, full, supple around Victoria’s fingers. Victoria wonders how they look like when they bleed.

When she kisses Max, she bites.

Max pushes. Pulls, until Victoria is under, squirming, breathing hot and heavy and ragged. Max’s pupils are blown, murky. Dark.

The clock on the wall ticks. Victoria knows it’s two hours until Chloe’s time out. An hour until Nathan’s flight back to Seattle. She knows these like she knows Max keeps a photo of her in her wallet, tucked neat and secure in the same slot as Chloe’s. A moon with a secret.

Cars rush outside. One of them could be Chloe’s, pulling into the driveway. Victoria’s phone rings. It could be Nathan, booking an earlier flight. Or it could be neither of them, and this could go on for two more hours.

A car honks and they freeze. The clock ticks. One, two: Three and the car is gone. Victoria looks up. Max catches her gaze and her eyes are fogged, a glare of worry and fear like headlights. Victoria pulls them flush and the fog clears.

Max’s cheeks are flushed. Glowing, electrified, like every other inch of her skin and every path on the map that leads to freckles and sensitive spots and places that like to be bitten.

Max looks at her, and it’s intense. A moon looming over a city.

(Two photos in her wallet. A heart for Chloe. A body for Victoria. Max melds against her and she is flawless, flawless, beautiful. A moon other than our moon.

Victoria wonders what Max will look like flawed and wounded and broken.)

A car passes. A phone rings.

Victoria wonders what those cheeks will look like stained with tears.

 

 _You’re a doll, you are flawless_  
_But I just can’t wait for love to destroy us_

* * *

 

Max had pretty eyes. Blue, bright, innocent. All fluttering eyelashes and cute little crinkles at the corners. She could look at Chloe and Chloe will melt, flesh turning to jelly and slime, a puddle on the floor with a rapid heartbeat. She could look at Chloe and the world will start spinning.

Now she looks at Chloe and her eyes are dark. Sharp. Wilted youth. Chloe stays in a solid state.

“What’s for lunch?” Chloe asks, uppity. Tries out a grin that stretches across her face but it isn’t returned. “What’s my baby cooking up this time, huh?”

Max shrugs. She’s dressed nicely, still work clothes and light make-up. Her lips are colored, plump, painted with lipstick Chloe didn’t know she even owned. Red (too red, maybe too red.)

_Where are you going?_

Chloe kisses and Max kisses her back, but it’s dry. Drying springs.

“Just some spaghetti. You’re okay with that, right?”

Chloe wraps an arm around Max’s waist and leans on her shoulder. Max is stirring the sauce and blinking, blank, barely there. Chloe sways them. Max twitches, turns to smile. Woken up from a dream. Shaken from a thought.

_Where did you go?_

The sauce bubbles. Max twists in her hold to grab a bowl and a ladle. A promise ring glints in her finger, caught in the fluorescence. Silver like anniversaries. Wedding dreams.

Chloe catches her by the mouth and kisses, deep. Pushes until Max is up against the counter. The saucepan slips an inch and wobbles. Chloe is tugging at Max’s shirt and trying to lift her up on the counter (they’ve done this before, _they’ve done this before_ , lunch can wait) but Max squirms and pushes her back with an elbow. The promise ring glints a second time, taunts.

Silver like blades. Stabbing deep into Chloe’s chest.

“Dude, what the hell?” Max chides. Eyes narrowing, lips pulled tight and scarlet and dry. “You don’t want overcooked sauce, do you?”

Max is staring and Chloe is still solid. Chloe is not melting into a puddle. “Whoa, chill. I just thought we could - y'know, do the girlfriend-do.”

“Now is _really_ not the time.”

Max huffs and Chloe says, “Okay, I’m sorry, alright? I was just playing, babe. Come on.” Her hands ball at her sides. Lakes freezing.

“You know I have to get back to work after this, right? I don’t want to be late.”

“I know, babe. I’m sorry.”

_Who am I?_

Lunch is finished without further fanfare from Chloe. Sauce in a bowl and pasta in another, steaming and mouthwatering and still hot. Chloe feels cold watching Max gather her things. Her bags, camera, jacket.

“Aren’t you even going to eat?” Who am I? _Who am I?_

“No. I’m just gonna pick up a candy bar or something from the store. Leave some for dinner though, will you?”

Max walks past her and Chloe doesn’t feel her. Doesn’t feel the warmth radiating off Max’s skin, or the fluttering butterflies in her stomach at the tart  smell of Max’s perfume. Nothing. Empty. Cold. “Max?” She calls out and it’s small, strained. Cracked. Like something dropping, falling apart at the seams.

Max turns. “Yeah?”

Chloe swallows. Say my name. Who am I. _What am I?_

(Falling apart at the seams. I am falling apart at the seams.)

“I love you.” She says at length.

“Love you too.” Max says. She looks at Chloe, and Chloe still isn’t melting. Chloe is still solid and cold and empty. Dead waterfalls. _What am I?  
_

( _Falling apart._ )

Who are you?

She stares at Max’s back. _Who are you?_

The door closes. Chloe falls apart.

 

 _Say my name, say my name_  
_You actin’ kinda shady, ain’t calling me baby_  
 _Why the sudden change_

* * *

 

The smoke floats, gray tendrils drawing pictures in the air. Vague shapes of animals, cars, _a rocket ship_ , Max even says. The smoke thickens with another puff and she knows this is the closest they’ll get to cloud watching.

Victoria’s lips are red. Red as the lipstick she wears, red as the one she gave to Max as a present. Red as blood and peeled muscle and passion. The color sticks to the filter of her cigarette like it sticks to Max’s lips and skin when she kisses.

She draws more pictures in the air with her mouth and breath. “Want one?” She asks coyly, tilting, looking around the cloud at Max (a bunny, Max can see a bunny.) Max watches a sweat bead drip from the underside of her chin to her collarbones. It races lower to bare breasts. Max shakes her head and Victoria smirks, says, “Oh? No partaking?”

“I’m trying to cut down on it.” Max says. Victoria smiles wider and it’s catlike. Predatory, feline. Dangerous, _breathtaking_.

“Come on.” She insists, twisting the cigarette in her fingers. Raises it up and waits. Max looks at it. At the crimson marks around the filter, lipstick she already knows the taste of. She takes it in her mouth, lips brushing Victoria’s fingertips.

She inhales. Victoria watches her with hooded eyelids, lips parted in quiet fascination. When Max exhales mists and clouds and more pictures, Victoria watches the smoke, eyes reflecting the smoky ribbons. Max sees a flower through them, gray petals unfurled, fading. Victoria pushes the cigarette toward her again and Max shakes her head no. So she smiles.

“Don’t say no to me, Max.” She whispers. Saccharine, wheedling. Max watches her take the cigarette into her own mouth (more stains, thicker lipstick stains) and breathe in. With a thumb, she traces Max’s bottom lip and peels it down. Puckers her lips and blows smoke into Max’s mouth.

Max takes it in. And then the mattress quivers, chaffed motel sheets rasping against their skin, and she has Victoria’s lips on hers. Reapplied lipstick smears again. Red. Toxic on her tongue. When they part, smoke trails erupt from Victoria’s mouth and nostrils. Max sees hearts form from the smoky strings. Gray hearts. Hearts fading in the dank air.

Victoria palms Max’s hips, pulls her down, down, _down_. Down on the bed with her and down the earthy holes of her eyes that burn through Max’s skull. She whispers, “ _Don’t say no to me_.” and kisses. She touches and it’s gentle, fleeting. Strums to a guitar or maybe heartstrings.

“I won’t.” Max murmurs, breathless, head spinning and lungs heaving, air sacs smoky, gray. Victoria’s eyelids flutter. She grins, her fingertips lighting with embers and breathes, cool and soothing from mint cigarettes. The sheets crumple under her elbows. Max lets herself be pulled lower. She thinks of cigarettes, of gray hearts. Of smoky hearts and cloud watching indoors.

Victoria’s lipstick can make the hearts red and real enough. She can light more cigarettes and make more clouds to watch. They look each other in the eyes and Max thinks, maybe the smoke hearts can beat for them both.

For one more hour.

  
_Could we pretend that we’re in love?_

* * *

 

The call goes unanswered.

Nathan dials a different number and waits, foot tapping, fingers curling, brows meeting. The air conditioning is stopping him from sweating. His suit feels tight.

“Is she there yet?” He grunts as soon as the call gets picked up. The person on the line says no, says not yet but he promises he’ll tell her to call as soon as she comes and he’ll call him too and - “I’ll check again in thirty.” He says, ends the call. He redials the other number and waits. Waits, and waits, and no one answers.

Fifteen minute break is up. He goes back into the conference room and finishes the meeting.

He _does_ check back again in thirty. He gets the same sputtering answer.

A second meeting follows the first one. Figures. Graphs. Money. Nathan excuses himself to go to the bathroom and stands in the hall.

Foot tapping. Fingers curling. Brows meeting.

No one answers. No one answers.

Where are you?

He texts and says meet me at lunch. They’ll go to her favorite restaurant. The French one with the jazzy music and the live piano evenings. He sends it twice with hearts and goes back to the conference room.

He redials at lunch.

Foot tapping. Fingers curling. Brows meeting.

He eats lunch alone.

He rushes to the Chase Space afterward and is greeted with -

no, not yet, she hasn’t come by yet but I’ll tell her to call as soon as she does and I’ll call you

\- and doesn’t stay for the exhibition of her new portraits. He redials, redials, redials.

Foot hard on the gas, fingers stiff around the steering wheel, brows meeting and damp with sweat.

Where are you _where are you?_

He goes home it doesn’t feel like home without her, no. He’s here but she’s not here _where are you?_

What did I do?

He opens their wardrobe and sees her clothes. Hung and folded, beautiful dresses and luxurious jackets, some shopped for and some presents. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays. One of her purses isn’t there and he redials.

Foot knocking over a chair. Fingers pulling his hair. Brows low and eyes shut.

Redials. Redials. _Redials_ -

he turns on the TV and watches the news with blank eyes and hollow ears. He closes the blinds to the sunset. The evening news says the weather will be sunny tomorrow and he thinks of picnics at the park

\- no one still answers.

Where are you ( _what are you doing?_ )

What did I do ( _what didn’t I do?_ )

He paces. He’s worried. He misses her.

(He’s _afraid_ -)

He needs to see her whole. He needs to see her blonde hair, the way the light catches on her eyelashes. Feel the way her spine bumps under his palms. See how she cracks into a smile at his quips. Feel her kisses, touches. All in the way he likes. She knows him so well she knows all the things he likes.

(- because sometimes her skin feels different. Like familiar land changing overnight and growing mountains, trees, sprouting geysers and lakes and unknown paths where there shouldn’t be. Because sometimes she smells different, sounds different, looks different. He’s afraid because she knows him so well and maybe he doesn’t know her at all -)

He calls her phone. The gallery. Phone. Gallery.

(- and he is terrified, so so _terrified_ because she is supposed to be his, and all the stars will _die_ before he lets someone take her away from him -)

The night grows late and he falls asleep with his phone in his hand. He wakes up to someone draping a blanket over him and he jolts, sits up through the dizziness. Victoria pushes him back down.

(And she is so warm, so warm and he is _scared_ -)

“What time is it?” He slurs, lying back down. Victoria caresses his face, runs her fingers through his hair and scalp in that way that he likes. Always in the way that he likes.

(- she smells different, a different perfume and a different brand of cigarettes _where did you go_ -)

“It’s late.” Is all he gets. He wants to be mad, to scream, to cry and say how worried (scared scared _scared_ ) he was but Victoria is kissing him and touching him, melding against him and everything is warm. The world burns away and it’s just the two of them.

And nothing else matters.

His heart swells. His blood is hot. He is alive.

(She is his.)

She is his.

 

 _You’ve got a way to keep me on your side_  
_You give me cause for love that I can’t hide_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


	3. Elephant farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Chloe are the kind to not linger on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tumblr prompt for this AU, brought to you by [Bust Your Windows.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xna0-pC8wnE)
> 
> This was a fairly difficult song to write to this AU to, since it's all about getting caught and I don't want that happening yet haha.
> 
> But anyway, enjoy! :)

There are still comic books on the shelves. Comic books, manga, the odd nerd DVD of anime or some obscure sci-fi film wedged in once every few books. It’s nice just looking at these sometimes. Little reminders of the years before 22.

Before life suddenly became work work _work._

Eat, sleep, bathroom a little bit, and then _work work work_ again.

Chloe doesn’t like to say it’s gotten boring. There’s excitement every now and then, specifically when Max isn’t too burnt out when she comes home every evening. Or when she actually remembers sex is a physiological need.

She’s rougher now though. Chloe sometimes wonders about that. Stress, probably? Frustrations? Max seems to be loaded with them these days.

Chloe doesn’t like thinking she contributes to those.

So she messes up. That happens, right? She always says she’s sorry. It’s not like she ever actually means to do anything wrong. Max totally understands, anyway. They don’t linger. They’re the kind of gals that are so damn understanding they don’t linger on the bad times.

(Breeding so many damn elephants they could have an elephant farm.)

“So are you ready?”

Chloe looks over her shoulder. Smiles when she sees Max hovering at the doorway, decked in a lilac halter dress and heels. It’s tight around the waist, tapers and flares into asymmetrical hems that look like shorn satin banners. It suits Max. She knows she’s short, knows she can get away with the cutesy-elegant things even if she doesn’t try.

“As I’ll ever be,” Chloe declares, arms spread freely on either side. Max has gained weight but Chloe’s still Chloe, still spindly, still lanky, just the right figure for tuxes and men’s cut trousers. “You look great, babe.”

Max smiles, makes a small frustrated sound. She walks to Chloe, says, “Your bow tie’s off.” and gets to fixing exactly that.

Chloe watches Max blink, mascara on Max’s eyelashes thick but just the right amount of thick, if that even makes sense. Max still has the same look of concentration she’s always had since the beginning of time. Wrinkle between her brows, bottom lip rolled into her mouth, eyes squinted, just a little bit. Chloe smiles.

“Okay,” Max breathes, pats Chloe’s bow tie, shoulders, and biceps. “I guess we’re good to go. We can’t be late.”

This is about the time Chloe reminds herself they’re dressed because of work. Max’s work to be specific.

(Not a romantic dinner. The romantic dinners stopped a year ago.)

“Yuh-huh. Can’t be late.” Chloe mutters.

“You know, not that I don’t want to bring you along, but I don’t really get why you’d want to come,” Max says. She’s turned away, fetching a silver handbag off the wall pegs by the closets. She doesn’t see Chloe frowning. “It’s just work. Just a review and interview for an article.”

“I just want an… evening out with you.”

“Don’t get mad if it gets boring.”

Chloe huffs. “Yeah, because I’m so totally uncultured art will bore me.”

Max sighs. Chloe wants to take that back (can’t take anything back, bucko, no siree.) “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” When Chloe pauses, Max turns and purses her lips like _don’t_ , so she starts saying something else. “And besides it’ll… I’ll amuse myself. You know me. Can always see somethin’ to have fun with.”

Max smiles wearily. Yeah, she knows too much about that. “Okay. We better get going then.”

“Right. Lemme just go get my keys.”

“Do you have the invitations?”

The keys are on the coffee table. Chloe scoops them up by the key ring with a finger and hollers, “What invitations?”

There’s a pause. The kind of pause that essentially means something is not right again. “The invitations? For this party? I gave them to you two nights ago to keep when you said you wanted to come?”

Chloe’s wiping sweat off her palms on her slacks. “Did you? I, ah,” Max’s face lingers at the door to their room. Not frowning, not smiling either. Chloe tries remembering. “They’re probably at the bedside drawer.”

“ _Probably?_ ” Max sputters with vivid disbelief and Chloe wants to groan to the heavens. Stops herself because this doesn’t need to get any worse.

She doesn’t exactly remember where she put the damn things, but luck’s on her side because Max comes out of the bedroom with two invitation slips in her hand. Chloe hopes there’s more of that luck tonight. 

* * *

 

Seattle’s so busy even at night. In Arcadia Bay, you’ll get quiet streets and nearly no cars on the road by 8pm, 9 being the possible latest. Seattle is alive no matter the time.

And Chloe misses Arcadia Bay, a little bit. It’s a strange thing to admit considering leaving that dump is all she’s ever talked about since she could form the damn words for it. But Arcadia Bay was calm. Slow, but calm. Seattle is always in a rush and you wouldn’t even feel the time slipping if you didn’t check your watch literally every moment.

Neon signs. Billboards. Pedestrians. Cars. Chloe rushes a green light before it could turn red and turns a corner, pulls up slow and steady, lips pursed and jaw already clenched.

The sign to their right says _Chase Space_ in the most obnoxious, most prestigious font and shining color possible. Chloe swallows, remembers to check her watch. 10.

She stops to let a bronze Porsche pull out. Their old Toyota is a slight embarrassment, but whatever. They’re (Max is) here for work. “So, I’ll be hanging with you all night, right? Like, we’ll be looking at art and talking to artists together and shit?”

Max makes a noncommittal noise. “Sure, if you want.”

“Seriously, just together? No apart time, right?”

“Sure, Chloe, sure,” She makes a sound again but now it’s exasperated. “What’s up with you, anyway? The exhibits aren’t going to eat you. You’ll be fine.”

“I just want you close, okay, Max? All the time. While we’re here. Like, you wanna go to the bathroom? I’ll carry you there bud, wipe you off, too, if you want. But literally just close all night. ‘Kay?”

Chloe weaves into the parking lot when the Porsche is out. Max is squinting. “Okay, that’s some clingy shit, Chloe,” She says, and Chloe has to breathe out a snappy retort to keep it from coming. “What is this really about?”

“Nothing.” But Chloe’s eyes dart to the side. Max follows to see the gallery entrance.

She puts two and two together.

“Oh my god, are we teenagers again?”

“Okay, stop it.”

“Dude,” Max whacks the dashboard and Chloe has to hit the breaks, turn and stare, jaw tight and brows low. Max used her left. She’s gonna leave a damn mark on the dash with her promise ring. “This is work, okay? I wouldn’t even be here otherwise! This is your whole reason for wanting to come along?”

“I’m just looking out for you, okay? What’s so wrong about that?”

“What’s wrong about that is this invitation was for Santana and I had to go pull strings ‘cause you wanted to come for _art_ ,” Max is gritting her teeth. Like Chloe didn’t do her a favor already as it is. You don’t even like Santana, babe. “And then I find out you’re - you’re _guarding_ me or something?”

“Like I should be doing! Jesus,” Chloe throws her hands up. “What if it was me, huh? What if I had to go to my ex’s place or something for work or -”

“I’d trust you is what I’d do, Chloe!”

Chloe’s lip wobbles. Max is glaring and it hurts, kinda, hurts more than it makes Chloe angry. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Max, okay? I’m just scared!”

Max sighs. Chloe kills the engine and turns, and sure enough there’s a mark on the dash like a white talon. She listens to Max breathe. She hears her own pulse in her ears, heartbeat fierce. Gotta calm down. Find the zen.

“Alright,” Max murmurs finally. “We’re gonna go in there, and we’re - _I’m_ \- gonna do work. I’ll take pictures and talk to some people, and you’ll be there,” Slowly, like Chloe is a goddamn idiot and Chloe thinks hey, maybe she _is_ a goddamn idiot. Maybe she shouldn’t have done this. Always starting something, Chloe. “And you’re gonna be _civil_. You’re gonna be a sensible _adult_.”

Chloe nods. Max takes a moment to breathe a little more before grabbing her things and climbing off the car. Chloe follows suit.

They walk in together and it’s tense. Max is stiff, smiling and passing greetings with people Chloe doesn’t know, doesn’t care about. They hand in their invitations at the reception, continue past a dramatic, totally obnoxious archway.

Max talks with a bunch of people with either funny hair, a funny name, or a funny face. Points if they have all three. This one guy who kept making googly eyes at Max got all the points.

“Are these the kind of people you have to come in contact with everyday?” Chloe hisses. Max throws her a warning look. 

Not planning on coming along everyday to work now, too, are you?

Time check. 11:30. Way past bedtime. Max is taking pictures of the exhibits with that concentrating look of hers and Chloe smiles a little.

There’s this dramatic shift in the air, or maybe Chloe is just feeling the moment too much, but she _does_ feel a weight settle in the atmosphere when she sees _her_. Kind of hard not to see her too. Dressed in a red off-shoulder with a length and fit that satisfies both her height and figure, everyone ought to see her coming.

The reaction is automatic. Chloe steps up, stands shoulder to shoulder with Max. She even smiles, a guard dog baring its teeth. Victoria’s eyes burn into her. Smoldering earth.

“Victoria.” Max starts, hand out, voice sweet. Victoria takes her hand and yanks her just enough, bumps cheeks like them formal people do.

“Maxine,” She says, low enough to be a purr. She looks to Chloe next and the spark of recognition is almost priding. “And Chloe Price. So great of you to come.”

“S’ _great_ being here.”

“Thank you for the invitations.”

Guess who said which. Chloe feels more than sees Max’s posture go rigid in warning.

Victoria seems it fit to ignore the guard dog’s sarcasm. “So what do you think of the event so far? Stimulating, I hope?”

 _Stimulating_ , can you believe this gal? “Oh, everything’s definitely wonderful. And interesting. I noticed you picked relatively unknown photographers for the exhibits?”

“True,” Victoria chimes, not even looking when a passing server hands them champagne. Two go to Max and Chloe, the third one is for her. She swirls it idly. “It’s for the, say, _freshness_. You’ve noticed the theme, right?” She smiles, gestures to the frames lining the walls. “Duality. Fluidity. Androgyny. We already see that all the time in fashion magazines. So such an overused matter needs to be… renewed somehow. To be engaging.”

“So you went with unknowns?”

“Unknown photographers, unknown models: You don’t see Erika Linder anywhere, do you? Unknown styles, more importantly.”

Max nods her head. Says, “It’s a fairly risky decision.” Victoria’s eyes light up, lips curling into a saccharine smile. Max hums. Chloe tries not to frown too deeply.

“What is life without some risks, though, Maxine dear?”

Max laughs through her nose. What’s so funny? Is there some kind of art people only joke in there? “All about that life with risks, Vicky?” She asks. Victoria grins, Chloe’s hands are shaking. Max continues: “But I suppose it also helps the photographers in a way, right? To get their work out there.”

“Oh yeah, 'cause _Vicky_ ’s all about helping the less fortunate.” Chloe bites out. Victoria’s eyes snap to her, expression unchanged. Max’s body goes fully rigid.

Being dragged by Max to the restrooms is like being hauled by a rusted robot. Chloe’s sure her forearm is going to bruise with Max’s grip.

Chloe thrown in, door locked, Max whirls and glares. Chloe clears her throat.

“So I, uh, hope we came in here to do what I think we’re going to do -”

“Really?” Max hisses, shrill, arms flailing. “Really, Chloe? _Really?_ ”

“Okay, I know that sounded harsh -”

“It sounded _immature_ is what it sounded!”

Chloe balls her hands, blows steam out her nostrils. “I lost my cool, alright? I don’t like how she looks at you. The fuck she gotta talk to you like that for? And _Vicky_? Really?”

“It’s called _charming_ , Chloe,” Max says it like it’s obvious, like she’s always had it. Like getting this job didn’t just force her to go get some. _Fucking_. “I’m trying to wrap this up as quickly as possible and get everything I need so we can go home. And you are not. _Helping_.”

It’s like running out of coals. Chloe’s shoulders slump and she frowns, says, “Oh,” and scratches her head. “Max, I -”

“Don’t say it.” Max cuts off with a raised finger. Chloe’s chest constricts.

(Way to go, moron. Way to go. That’s another elephant for the farm.)

“I’m going back,” Max says with a heavy breath. She puts her hand on the door handle, rubs her temple, not turning Chloe’s way. “Can you - can you keep to the sidelines until I’m done? Can you do that?”

Chloe doesn’t want to. Chloe doesn’t want to but Max has to finish her job so she just - “S-sure, babe. I’ll - I’ll hang back.”

The door opens. Max smiles at her and it’s soft, but it barely reaches her eyes. “Okay. Don’t get me into anymore trouble, please?”

Chloe nods. Max slips away. 

Time check: 12:20. 

* * *

 

1am.

The servers are starting to give her funny looks. Chloe ignores them like a pro, quietly continues snatching glass after glass off the champagne tray like it’s no one’s business. She’s not even drunk. Everyone lay off.

Max is near the black and white exhibits with Victoria, discussing more… pretentious art stuff probably. Or whatever. Victoria’s hand is on Max’s elbow. Max is smiling wider than she should be.

Hecks, s'called charming, Chloe. Jeezus.

(Pretentious art stuff.

Do they ever think about that? _Talk about high school?_

 _How they used to date_ , you mean, and how Victoria was such a hot piece of shit that didn’t have time for Max?)

Max waves for Victoria to pose next to a line of frames. Victoria’s smile is dazzling. Max bends, takes one-two shots. She has a cute butt.

And then when that’s done, Victoria comes and loops an arm around Max’s, keels to whisper something in her ear. Max laughs, shoulders and head shaking and all.

(Has she ever apologized to Max even?

The bitch. 

_What_ , would you _like_ her to apologize?)

Chloe’s pretty sure she imagined the little earlobe nibble there. It’s hard to see things clearly at this distance. And like, loaded with champagne.

It’s totally the champagne.

They turn and they’re both grinning. Do they have matching lipsticks?

(Red’s a totally common color, buddy, what the hell is wrong with you?

S'called charming. Max has gotten really good at this charming thing. Man, work really makes you grow.

Dude, what kind of growth have you been getting at Seven-Eleven?)

Champagne down the hole. Chloe’s throat burns. 1:35am. 

* * *

 

1:50. Chloe’s head is flat on the reception desk. She’s drifting on a sea of sparkly, rich asshole champagne sea. She kinda wants to puke.

Someone holds her by the shoulders. She twitches, flinches away. Max stares at her with pursed lips. God, she’s so pretty.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Like oh, is it _that_ obvious? “Come on, let’s get you outside. You need some air.”

“We done?” That sounds… Chloe does not like how that sounds. She amends quickly. “You done? _Withduh_ , with the charming crap?”

“Yeah. We can go.”

Chloe tries standing up. Max hooks her hands under Chloe’s arms and hauls her to her feet, keeps those hands there just in case. The contact is nice. Chloe leans on Max’s side and they shuffle, hips bumping and knees popping. She pets Max’s hair, bends for a sniff.

God, do I just love you.

“So, how’s the, uh. The thing? You got what'cha need? You, ah -”

“Crap, my camera.”

The wind slaps at Chloe’s face. An asshole driver drags out his horn nearby. She’s turning but Max is keeping her in place, smiling sheepishly and Chloe kinda wants to kiss her. “I gotta run back, grab my camera real quick,” Her voice softens. She squints at Chloe. “Can you make it back to the car?”

Chloe shoots a rapid thumbs up, hobbles lousily down the steps to prove her point. Stumbles the rest of the way down to their embarrassing Toyota, sways to the champagne rumbling in her stomach.

She sees Max through the glass of the gallery walls. Max is gonna trip on her heels if she doesn’t stop jogging like that. 

She recovers her camera, right where she left it on an empty pedestal-thing next to Victoria. They talk for a bit.

(Touching hands, brushing forearms. Victoria’s smile is gut wrenching.)

Victoria must ask for it because Max does a small shrug, lifts the camera up  to face them as they press close. _There_. Max presses the shutter and Victoria twists to land a kiss to her cheek.

Friends do that.

(Exes don’t. Exes shouldn’t.)

Chloe is _very_ drunk, and Chloe only has about two defaults when she’s drunk. Sad drunk Chloe or mad drunk Chloe. She doesn’t feel like being sad drunk.

It must be a rock or something that she picks up, a funny-shaped rock, she’s not sure, but it’s smooth in her hands. She walks past their Toyota, slaps it on the hood like _I’ll be right back._

There are Porsches. Some BMWs, there’s even a weird-looking car with a tunnel in the middle and looks like it belongs to a sci-fi set. She stops in front of a red Mercedes with a Chase Space sticker slapped on the windshield.

Fuckin’ queen likes her things in red.

Chloe’s head pounds, swims in a golden fuzz. She swings her arm and something crashes. It’s a bottle, she belatedly realizes. A bottle is what she picked up. It shatters, splashes leftover liquid all over the front. The headlights flash and the alarm starts whining.

She stumbles, retches. She forces herself forward and grasps the wet hood for balance. Opens her mouth and unleashes every damn glass of champagne she had at the party.

The alarms won’t shut up. She adjusts her handling, smears her own palm on puke and wetness. It stinks like _dang_. When she whirls, Max is at the gallery entrance, pale as a marble statue. Flies are gonna get into her mouth if she doesn’t shut it. Victoria is next to her. She looks mildly pissed.

Security guys are scrambling to get Chloe off the Mercedes.

Well, it’s a good thing Max doesn’t linger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely inspired by a personal experience I had with champagne and a car. 
> 
> *Tiny embarrassed laughing* 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Cat-eye glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe won't remember it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, before writing the chapter: So how can I make this au even worse

The world is rocking back and forth. The pavement shudders under Chloe's foot, or is that just her? She keels, hangs onto the handle of the door for about a millisecond before some other drunk guy, fuck his face, shoves her the rest of the way out.

She stumbles. Blinks, shakes her head (big mistake) and makes a gross sound when she feels puke going up. She swallows and that's even grosser.

What time is it, anyway? A pale line is wrapped around her wrist, where her watch should be. Where'd she leave that damn thing again? She looks up, light pollution and general drunkenness making stargazing pretty damn impossible and tries to do the math instead. 

It's like a test question. How many hours has it been since Chloe got fired to make room for fresh recruits? a) Three hours b) More than three probably c) Chloe dude you're too drunk to think about this right now

She laughs under her breath because she's going with c.

How is she going to tell Max?

Electric bill's due in about two days. Water in about a week more. They're a month behind on rent and Chloe has asked Joyce for money twice already this week. Joyce is worried, she thinks, casually slipping in suggestions of moving back home and attending community college whenever Chloe calls.

Chloe really doesn't like being rude to her mom but sometimes, Joyce kind of just... hits a nerve.

A toddler can walk better than her, probably. She bumps against a couple on the sidewalk and bumbles _sorry, fuck, sorry_ , and the lady with the thick make-up smiles sweetly at her. The gaunt-looking guy with her sneers. Chloe backs the fuck off and trips, flails in time to catch herself on the wall of an alley with her elbows. The earth is really rocking out.

A motorcycle roars past. It's loud, the revolting kind of loud. Chloe hears a set of clicks that stop abruptly when it's close enough and she turns. Half-expecting the couple from earlier to turn up, beat the crap out of her maybe, hopefully, for some reason.

(That would be the perfect ending to this shitty day.)

She sees someone else though. Tall, blonde, posture perfect and arms crossed and Chloe corrects herself, because now _this_ is definitely the perfect ending to this shitty day.

"Keep walking." She slurs, tries to sound threatening but she's pretty sure she just sounds like she's got vomit lodged in her throat.

Victoria cants her head thoughtfully. She's got them cat-eye sunglasses on top of her head. What's the point of that, anyway? It's like, fucking dark out. Is that like a prim fashionista thing? "Nice digs," She says, totally ignoring what was just said. "That whole messed up shirt thing? Suits you."

Chloe glances down at the dried stain of spilled beer on her shirt. She scoffs out something fierce. "Fuck off. I'm having a crappy day."

"And here I thought you were having a crappy life."

Chloe holds a finger up, _hold that thought_ , and turns away. She vomits behind some trash cans, loud and proud. Retching and stuff. A kitten skitters away. It'll probably miss its box home. Victoria's face is crumpled when she straightens. Chloe flips her off.

"That's disgusting."

"Shut up. What do you want? Don't you have a restraining order against me or something?"

"I do. But my car isn't anywhere near, so what's the harm?" Victoria says this so flippantly that Chloe wants to drag her vocal chords out of her pretty red mouth. Victoria starts walking closer. "What's up with you? Is Thursday night get wasted night in punk rock universe?"

"Rich life gotten so boring to you you're suddenly interested in mine?"

Chloe squares her shoulders when Victoria stops in front of her. Close. Not too close, but close enough that Chloe can notice she's probably got one or two inches on Victoria if Victoria wasn't so attached to her heels. As it is, they're eye level.

"You could say that. It's the bad lives that you get inspiration out of. Who knows, maybe I could come up with a series inspired entirely by you," Victoria says, smiles. "I'd splice you some of the profit and fame. You need it."

Chloe's hands tremble. Victoria's still smiling, standing high and mighty and Chloe wants to rip the smugness off her face, drag her so low she'd be on her knees at Chloe's feet.

"Shut up. Fuck you," She shoves. Victoria's blouse is soft against her hand. "Rich fucking bitch, you don't know how hard life is. You probably don't even know how real living feels."

"Why bother with real living when I'm living nicely enough as it is?"

"You're all daddy's money, bitch."

"I got a daddy, though."

Chloe's face crumples like balled up paper. Victoria's lips twitch and Chloe really wants to slap her. Punch all her perfect teeth out. Ruin that face until it's not so pretty anymore, pull all her hair out so she doesn't have the golds of a fucking crown.

Chloe advances. Victoria doesn't budge. "I fucking hate you."

"You wrecked my car. You ruined my show."

Victoria tilts her head, exposes the curve of her neck, the inlet where it meets her shoulder. Chloe wants to wrap her fingers around that neck and choke it. Chloe wants to dig her teeth into that neck and taste the sweat on the skin. Make Victoria bleed. 

"With the way you prepared that show, it was already ruined to begin with. Unknowns? Amateurs? Really?"

Something in Victoria's face shifts. A muscle spasms on her cheek and Chloe feels pride when she takes a second too long to fire back.

"You don't know anything about class, so why should your opinion matter?"

Victoria takes two steps back for space, eyes never leaving Chloe. She has a really nice bod. Has all the luxury of workout equipments and low calorie diets, blouse hugging her waist and breasts, thighs and hips defined in tight-fit jeans. Chloe's head pounds, her anger is spreading from her chest to her pelvis. 

She blinks. The alley's spinning before her very eyes. 

Victoria cocks her hip, lowers one hand and Chloe sees the plastic bag in the loose fist. There's a bag of Lays, the barbecue flavored one. Cigarette packs. A tin of assorted cookies, the type Max often brings home after work with only half of them left.

"You're a really sorry person to look at, Price."

"At least I _am_ a fucking person, Chase." Chloe slurs. She leans back until her tailbone touches the wall, hands hanging at her sides. Victoria's still looking at her. Eyes mostly closed in a grin, wide, feline. The red of her lips is really fucking infuriating.

Chloe wants to smear it. With her mouth, with her fingers, with her knuckles, fuck she's so drunk and angry and unsteady she doesn't even know.

Victoria stands there, and Chloe wants to push her away, pull her close, tear her apart until she's nothing.

"You remember when Max broke up with you?" Chloe asks, a sob trapped where her breath hitches. Her chest stutters. The slurring doubles, her voice thickens. Victoria's raising her brows and Chloe feels the urge to slap her and herself.

"Yes," Victoria answers. "I came back from a Vortex party. She was in her room, I was kind of drunk. She called me a thousand times before that but I didn't pick up because I was busy."

"Yeah?"

"We fought. It was the last straw, I guess. Too many times I put the Club first. She threw me out of her room and that was it."

Chloe laughs because _fuck_. She holds her face in her hands, sniffs, and when she looks up again her eyes sting. "I lost my fucking job." She says.

Victoria snorts and puts one hand on her hip. Her stare is unwavering, unreadable, supreme. An empress, driving blade after blade into Chloe with every breath and she's smirking. This shit-eating curl of her mouth that Chloe really wants to see smashed against the floor.

(Victoria on her knees. Victoria at her feet. Chloe really wants Victoria low and nothing and filthy at her feet.)

"Fucking tragic." Victoria says, and starts strutting away. Her hips rock with rhythm. Chloe stumbles when she attempts pursuit.

"H-hey. Take me home, will you?"

Victoria stops to look at Chloe over her shoulder. She looks like she's thinking about it, eyes narrowed, lips parted, brows furrowed. Chloe goes back and forth between hopeful and terrified that Victoria is even considering it.

"Fuck no." Victoria eventually answers. She turns the corner and disappears.

Chloe stays in the alley to vomit one more time before leaving. She walks the other way.

 

It's when she's slumped on a bench outside a minimart that a car pulls up. Their old Toyota. Everything is blurring together. Her tears and breaths. Max, guiding her to the car, cooing into her ear, petting her cheeks, hair, forehead, and Chloe's brain couldn't keep up so she just nods along and crawls into the passenger side.

"I was worried about you." Max says. Chloe rests her forehead on the dash.

"I got fired."

Silence. Chloe's lip wobbles, her cheeks shudder, glisten with tears falling in long, thick lines. The blacks of her eyeliner smudge.

"You'll find another job," Max answers softly, carefully. She adds when Chloe doesn't answer, "You'll be fine. We'll be fine, really."

 _I'm sorry_ , Chloe keeps slurring, and Max just keeps her hand on Chloe's and says _it's okay, you'll be okay_ with her eyes glued to the road. 

Chloe says _I love you I'm sorry_ over and over again because she doesn't know what else to say. 

Her foot knocks over a plastic bag on the carpet. A bag of Lays and a tin of assorted cookies spill out. They get filed away to _things she won't remember in the morning_ along with the rest of the night. 

She's asleep in about five seconds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, after writing the chapter: Ah, yes. This will do nicely


	5. Knobbly knees and gangly arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria needs to crawl back into her skin. She needs to feel herself again. 
> 
> (Maybe they love each other.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be proofread.

Victoria stares at the nameplate on the desk. It's dark, the deepest black flecked with strands of lighter gray, lustrous in this fluorescence. When she angles her head enough, the golden letters attached to the surface shimmer.  _Victor Chase_ , it says, in strong, extremely professional accent.

Take pride in your name, her father always said. The first and last. The conqueror and the conquering last name to go with it.

The nameplate rattles when her father's burly hand slaps on the desk. Victoria looks up, indifference in a loose jaw and lax lips. Perfected with practice. Victor either sees through the façade or doesn't appreciate her silence because his frown deepens. His stress lines are harsh, chasms on a plain.

"You're not listening."

"I am," Victoria answers calmly. She stands up straighter, places her hands behind her with casual slowness. They tremble on the small of her back.

"Then tell me what I just told you, Victoria."

Like she's a kid again. Like she'll never stop being the little girl with knobbly knees and gangly arms. Victoria breathes deeply, quietly. In through her nostrils and out her mouth. "You were saying how the latest exclusive gallery show, the one with androgyny and ambiguity—"

"And the unknowns."

Victoria pauses to breathe again. "— _and the unknowns_ , was an unwise decision."

"I said stupid. Not unwise."

"They're the same thing—"

" _Unwise_  is putting it  _kindly_ ," Victor cuts off. His tone is the gleam of fire off a bastard blade, hefted high to cut something apart. Victoria imagines it's her neck on a chopping board. "It was a  _stupid_  decision. Do you know what kind of image I've been giving the gallery? Do you know what kind of message your recent  _stunt_ ," he spits it with disdain, "just sent out?  _Are you listening to me?_ "

"I am. There's a bug on your desk," Victoria observes blankly.

Victor huffs, steely eyes snapping downward. Victoria is about to point the spider out but he spots it quickly. She barely flinches when he slams the heel of his palm down on the damn thing. A bastard sword clean through someone's neck.

"The Chase Space is luxury. It's high class art in high class shows. High class guests. _High class artists_ ," Victor says, pride in his voice that dips to dismal depth when he looks at Victoria again. Victoria's hands won't stop shaking. "You let amateurs into it, just like that. A snap of your fingers and the image I've made is crumbling."

"The show got good reviews. This article—"

"Amateurs are gonna start thinking they can get their sorry works into the gallery that simply now." Victor's not hearing her. Victoria's mute, dumb, blind, and crippled, like always. A little girl with knobbly knees and gangly arms. She balls her hands but they still shake. "They're gonna think, one decent work and they'll get the show of their dreams. They're gonna think they'll get lucky. What are you gonna do about that? When amateurs start sending their work in?"

Victor leans back, fingers tented under his chin. It's a strong chin. Square and harsh, curving into a wide jaw that spasms the longer Victoria doesn't answer. Victoria breathes in.

"Reject them. They should know the Chase Space is for the best of artists, only."

"Will you? You let the amateurs in once already, though. There's something to be said about sympathy."

Victor stands up, the wheels of his posh office chair rolling back. His shoes shine, each tapping step on the marble floor like a sword knocking on stone. Victoria freezes. Victor's presence is heavy, stifling, sweltering body heat in a body that's six feet tall and more than 200 pounds.

The warmth drains out of Victoria. She's cold. Her hands tremble.

"Rejection is an easy message. It'll remind them if they've forgotten that the Chase Space isn't  _easy_ ," she says, straight-faced, voice even, head tilted up to look at the peak of the tower that is Victor. A monument of victory, high and mighty, ruthless and unforgiving. Victor's eyes narrow.

"You'd know all about rejection, won't you?"

It hurts more than it should. Or, it hurts  _exactly_  like it should. Victoria feels the sting of welling salt behind her eyeballs. She finally does it, finally clenches her teeth and sets her jaw.

Victor huffs.  _Stupid decision_ , comes the whisper under his breath again and Victoria's wounded enough to not help herself when she bristles.

"This is stupid! You're overreacting—"  

A little kid with knobbly knees and gangly arms, falling sideways with a backhanded slap. Bruises on her elbows from the fall, a smug dash of red on one cheek, swollen come evening, dried tears on it by morning.

Except Victoria doesn't fall this time. She tilts, but her balance is impeccable. Practiced. Perfected. Used to it. She bites her cheek and then her tongue. Don't talk. Do  _not_  talk.

She lets her nails dig into her palms. Stop shaking, keep breathing, quit crying,  _do not talk_.

Be stronger. Be better. Be perfect.

"The Chase Space is yours to manage but from now on, you consult with me before arranging any show. Do you understand me?"

Victoria nods. It's not enough. You answer when Victor asks you a question, it's  _law_. Victor raises his voice, " _do you understand me?_ " and Victoria has to consciously keep herself from shuddering.

"Yes," she says. The cracks in her voice are fault lines on the earth. She sniffs and her face feels clammy, cold, wet. She keeps her head turned away.

Victor mutters, "you're still the same," and in Victoria's head that's  _I'm so disappointed in you, Can't you be any better, Why aren't you working harder_  and it's enough to make her shoulders fold like she's being picked up by her frowning mother.

The telephone on Victor's desk beeps twice. Victor attends to it with heavy footsteps, a jab of his finger, a guttural grunt of  _fine, send him up_ , and Victoria knows that's her cue to leave.

She locks herself in a stall in the women's restroom and cries until her knees don't feel knobbly, until her arms are her own and stop being gangly.

(Be stronger. Be better.  _Be perfect._ )

Nathan calls while she's reapplying her make-up.

" _How'd it go?_ "

"Hm?"

" _With your dad. The talk. How'd it go? What did he want to tell you?_ "

Victoria grips the tube of lipstick in her hand until it hurts. She runs her finger up and down the power button on her phone, contemplating hanging up.

"Just things about the gallery. Finances, same old," she answers.  _Same old, same old_. Nathan hums on the other end. "Anyway, nothing I couldn't handle."

" _So you're alright? Free?_ "

"Free, yeah." Victoria wants to laugh. A private joke.

" _So can you meet me for lunch? I've got a meeting up at this Italian place, great food. No one would probably mind. They know you, and I'd really like to have you around._ "

Victoria lowers the lipstick from her mouth. Her eyes are puffy, her face is pale, unhealthy, colored on one cheek where a slap had landed wholly. Nathan mutters, " _Vic? You there?_ " and she feels angry, so suddenly.

An employee passes behind her with wary eyes. Victoria glares until she looks away. Angry.

Nathan breathes on his end.  _Angry_.

"Actually, I can't right now," she says, monotone. "I just got something."

" _Oh. Alright, that's fine, too. Call me when you need me, okay? I gotta go now_."

"Sure, baby."

" _Vic?_ "

"Hm?"

A pause, paper rustling, Nathan's voice lowering with worry that makes Victoria's blood boil. " _Are you okay?_ "

( _Be stronger. Be better. Be perfect._

 _Show poise. Show composure. Show perfection_.)

"I'm okay, Nate. Why wouldn't I be?"

" _Alright_."

Victoria hangs up. She clutches the sink and stares at the face that is not hers. Too pale to be hers. Too broken to be hers. She's angry. This girl in the mirror shouldn't be her.

Nathan can't see her like this. Nathan can't talk to her like this. Nathan doesn't deserve her like this, low and wounded and angry. She needs to destress. Feel herself. Slip back into her skin.

When she walks out of the building, her head is high and her poise is strong, but everything feels wrong. Not her body. Not her skin. If she squeezes her fists too tightly, she might burst into blood spatters and stardust. She hails a cab for home.

Destress.

* * *

 

The neighborhood is distant enough from her world that Victoria doesn't care about the open air. There's no one around to recognize her.

She tips her head, throws it back until the breeze brushes her nostrils, until the inside of her mouth feels cold enough with the night seeping in through her parted lips. She closes her eyes, lets hair sweep side to side on her forehead and the tips of her ears.

She's kept it short all these years. As short as high school, as short as college, as short as the hair on the Victoria she's made herself to be. So short that the profile of her skull shows, flaunts divine bone structure, and the face of a Chase is seen on all angles but behind.

It feels longer, suddenly. Not her hair. Not her head. Not her face.

The house in front of her is dark. Curtains drawn, lights off, interior empty and exterior bland. The edges of envelopes show on the gap under the front door. Either Max and Chloe haven't been home since this morning, or those are just more bills.

Victoria's leaning toward the latter. She smiles to herself, because that's cruel.

Max finds her like that 15 minutes later. Seated on a big black motorcycle, vintage, exactly Nathan's taste, a model with shining chrome accents and round side mirrors, something that looks straight out of some old greaser film or should be on display in some ridiculous vintage car show.

Max's first instinct is to look around the quiet neighborhood. A car speeds past on the intersection at the end of the block, but it's redder and newer than their beaten up Toyota. Victoria smirks. Max comes closer and adjusts the bag slung on her shoulder.

"This is a surprise."

"Is that a problem?" Victoria asks, daring, fierce, angry. Max's recoil manifests in raising brows. She opens her mouth, Victoria shakes her head and shrugs. "Sorry, didn't mean to sound bitchy."

"You always sound bitchy. This is bitchi _er_."

"That's what I meant."

Victoria picks the helmet off from between her thighs and hands it over. Max looks at it like it's alien technology. "It goes on your head," Victoria drawls. Sarcasm is her native language. "You know, so in case of accidents it won't split open—"  

"I know what helmets are for," Max snaps. She sounds annoyed. Victoria sees bags under her eyes and a tired lilt to the downturn of her lips. Rough day. Good. "Why do I need one right now?"

"Because we're going somewhere."

"On that?" Max gestures to the motorcycle. Victoria stares unblinkingly. Max just grumbles. "Can I ask where to?"

Victoria shrugs, voice going low. "Somewhere."

Max blinks, an unnatural focus coming to her face. She looks at Victoria,  _really_  looks at Victoria, and without another word just takes the helmet and puts it on.

The motorcycle bobs when Max gets on. Her bag sits snug between her front and Victoria's back. Victoria shifts, boots heavy on the concrete as she backs up. Max's idle fingers play with the fabric of Victoria's jeans. The get-up, so unlike her.

Victoria starts the engine. The goddamn thing is  _loud_ , Jesus Christ, and she swerves off the lot with the sound of its beastly growl.

She picks their roads wisely. Away from the main highway and the concentration of traffic, lights, and people both big and small: people that could recognize her, or Max, or them both.

Max flattens herself against Victoria's back, wraps her arms around Victoria's waist. Her chin is a tiny pool of heat burning through the shoulder of Victoria's leather jacket. She asks, "did something happen?" and it's yelled to be heard above the roar of the engine. Victoria rolls her jaw.

"Dad," she answers. Max says nothing more. She holds on tighter because their speed is going up, but even then her touch is soothing. Tender.

Victoria doesn't need tender. She needs to crawl back into her skin. She needs to squeeze her fists without feeling like she's going to pop.

She needs to feel herself.

* * *

 

 _Destress_.

The motel's shabby but it's nice. Nice, in that the attendant at the front desk didn't care about faces enough to look at them twice when they checked in and the baseball game on his box of a TV was too interesting. The walls of their room are brown, peach under flaking wallpaper. The color matches the hardwood floor panels nicely enough that Victoria didn't cringe.

The sheets are soft but not the kind of soft she likes, which hardly matters because they won't be sleeping on it anyway. She grunts, whines, lips and cheeks sticky. Max's nectar still burns sun spots in her mouth. She turns her head, tries to keep Max in sight as Max goes around the bed, sticking her fingers into the scarves keeping Victoria bound. Makeshift ropes. Testing the stricture for circulation.

Victoria's tied at the wrists, spread eagled, lying on her stomach, shoulders and breasts flush on the mattress but the rest of her is held up, waist down. Max moves to the scarves tying her ankles together. Victoria laughs because she's playing around there.

"Like the view?" she asks, adjusting so her knees hold a bit of her weight. "My neck is sore. You're taking too long."

"That won't be all that's sore after."

Cocky. Victoria snorts. Max laughs, her breaths on Victoria's thigh. She holds both of Victoria's calves, pushing down, getting on the bed. Her mouth is hot and Victoria squirms when she closes it around  _exactly_  where Victoria wants it to be.

Max's tongue is batting on her clit, teeth grazing, breaths heavy and sweeping on sensitive folds. It's maddening. Victoria whines and clutches the length of the scarves tying her wrists to the bedposts. She grits her teeth. Max pulls back.

"Jesus, Vic, not yet," she purrs. A sloppy kiss on one ass cheek.

" _Fuck you,_ " Victoria says huskily. Max rises, and Victoria feels Max's hands on her waist, the smooth, round tip of  _something_ pressing up against her slit. She tenses, ribs shuddering with quick breaths. Anticipation. Impatience.  _Need_.

" _Max_ ," she whimpers. Max bucks her hips and Victoria surprises herself when she cries out.

"Mhm."

Max is always like she is. Rough, hard, like the days that hang bags under her eyes and make the muscles of her shoulders scream with exhaustion. She's a tidal wave, unforgiving, pumping in and out with one hand clawed into Victoria's hip and another on the back of Victoria's neck.

Victoria whimpers muffled profanities into the pillow. Saliva mixes with dried nectar on her cheeks and chin. Max pulls out, lets the exposure linger before plunging back in and Victoria bites hard on the stiff pillow to keep from shrieking.

Throbs blossom on her wrists, arms straining against the bonds. Max lifts Victoria's hips for better access and Victoria twists her head to the side to ease her neck muscles a little. Except, she's whining in the open now and she idly wonders if the walls are as thick as the motel keeper said they are.

Max shoots forward, violently. The bed frame creaks. Victoria screams because who even cares anymore.

" _Max!_ " she pleads, and her mouth hangs open like she means to say more but her breaths get too heavy for words. Max gets it. She doesn't stop.

She keeps going. She's the harsh winds tearing apart Victoria's roofs. She's clawing into Victoria's skin, peeling it off, dragging Victoria out of this body that's too small, too young, too light and doesn't feel like it fits.

Victoria feels burns aching on her wrists. She hangs on, sweat, saliva, and bright red lipstick mixing on the pillow, vocal chords incapable of anything beyond noises.

When she comes, she hangs onto the scarves, twisting to bury her face into the pillow, ass going up and knees digging hard into the mattress. She spasms, eyes rolling skyward and this long, breathy moan muffling itself on the pillow. Max slows and heaves bursting breaths on the back of Victoria's neck. Victoria's knees give and slide, and Max lets her go.

There's a thud, something solid and buckles and straps hitting the floor. Victoria's eyes are closed: stay closed, while Max moves around to untie her wrists and ankles.

They slump. Max on Victoria's back, skin on skin, breathing sweat and sex. It should be disgusting, but Max is drawing pictures on her waist and everything just feels comfortable. Everything feels okay.

"How was that?" Max ventures. Soft but rough, tender the way she says it but harsh with labored breaths. Victoria likes it.

"Good," she wheezes. "Good. I liked it." Needed it.

"You need a bath," Max murmurs. Victoria snickers, whispers an expletive because her voice hasn't recovered enough for anything louder. The clock hanging on the wall tells her it's 9, Nathan's probably on his way home. She can't feel her legs yet and she doesn't trust her willpower enough to force them up.

Max's heartbeat drums on her spine. "Water?" Max asks, and Victoria just nods.

She stands up, dresses, but before she goes she leaves Victoria a lit cigarette on an ashtray at the bedside table. The door closes behind her.

Victoria gets up with the cigarette a little later. Pain blossoms everywhere, subtle, good, familiar. She takes deep drags while staring at her reflection on the tacky bathroom mirror. Immaculate bone structure. Stress lines shallow, barely there. A human flush on her cheeks and color on her neck. Crown fluffy, short, mussed but bright and blonde.

A face she can recognize again. She squeezes her fist, and nothing bursts. The marks on her wrists, she could hide for the few days they'll stay there. Her cardigans are hanging on their own exclusive side in her wardrobe.

Like high school. Like college. Like every day she's felt like  _herself_ and nothing less.

The tension, the stress, the phantom of a heavy hand on her cheek peels away with every gentle tremor of aftershock.

She calls Nathan to say she'll be coming home a little late, _I'm sorry, just went out driving a little bit. I borrowed your bike, is that okay?_ and Nathan says  _sure_ , asks if he should pick her up but she says no.

" _Are you okay, Vic?_ " he asks. Victoria smiles.

"Yeah. I should go driving around more often."

Nathan laughs, " _yeah, I guess you should_ ," and he sounds so delighted that Victoria laughs with him. Nathan loves her enough to give her space. She loves Nathan enough to not let him see her being anything other than  _herself_.

( _Show poise. Show composure. Show perfection._ )

Victoria lightly kicks the thing on the floor by the bed. A length of synthetic skin, straps and buckles, a sloppy trail of sticky liquid.

"It really helps with the stress," she says.

Max comes back with a bottle of water that she leaves on the table when Victoria stands, waiting at the door of the bathroom. Nude, unapologetic, spine straight, and shoulders back. A victor stepped out of a Renaissance portrait. Max sets her phone down next to the bottle. A finished call flashes on the screen. She's smiling. Victoria grins with her tongue between her teeth. 

(Maybe Max loves her enough to not care when she's not herself.

Maybe she loves Max enough to not care when she's not herself. 

Maybe they love each other.) 

Victoria blows out smoke. Smoke hearts. Gray hearts. 

"Need someone to scrub your back?" Max asks coyly. Victoria laughs, cocks her head in a gesture to come forth.

"I think I'm good. I'll scrub yours." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall i have absolutely nothing to say about this. 
> 
> credit for soft butch Victoria on a motorcycle goes to [Xan!!](http://rippedkatemarsh.tumblr.com/post/144766144939/ive-wanted-to-draw-victoria-on-a-motorcycle-since) bless you angel 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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